Hallelujah
by Holly4
Summary: Complete! Immediately following the closing credits on Not Fade Away. - ‘Some knowledge and some song and some beauty must be kept for those days before the world again plunges into darkness.’ – Marion Zimmer Bradley.
1. All of Heaven in a Rage

**A/N: **While I might have several different projects in the works at one point, it is typically in my nature to refrain from posting two at a time unless one is already complete. However, in this case, my betas have prompted me to go ahead get it out there. Thus if updates come a little slow, it's because I'm bustling for two instead of the usual one.

As Kimmie can attest, just minutes after the AtS finale aired, I was jotting down ideas in my notebook to satisfy my need for closure. This is the result. It's going to be relatively short—hopefully no more than five parts, but then, it really only has one objective.

My thanks again to my wonderful betas. This one's for you two. And for Spike as well, who made the Buffyverse my most cherished retreat.

**Hallelujah**

Author: Holly (hangingavaricehotmail.com)

Rating: Strong R

Distribution: Sure. Just tell me where.

Timeline: Immediately following the closing credits on _Not_ _Fade Away._

Summary: 'Some knowledge and some song and some beauty must be kept for those days before the world again plunges into darkness.' – Marion Zimmer Bradley.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon. They are being used for entertainment purposes and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

**All of Heaven in a Rage**

There was some reassurance that despite its numerous opportunities, the world had failed to successfully see through an apocalypse. That he was standing alongside some of the only beings in existence that had a prayer's chance of doing any good while facing the legions of oncoming hell.

Some reassurance, but not much.

"Right then," Spike drawled, nodding at Angel. "You take the dragon. I'll get me the fifty on the left. Ole Blue here can fend the rest."

Funny. Despite the circumstances, he always found time to talk.

"Sounds like a plan," the elder vampire confirmed, tossing him a briefly grateful glance. The same that reflected the dreaded innate knowledge that there would be no afterward. That this was it. One last hurrah before the lights went out. "We'll meet up at the Hyperion after it's over. Right?"

Spike nodded. "Sounds good."

"After this is over," Gunn mumbled. "I'm definitely taking some vacation time."

"I will show them the true meaning of suffering," Illyria confirmed, the faintest hint of emotion dancing across her face from the pale glow of nearby streetlights to offset poignant reflection. "They will bleed as I have bled, but I will make the pain a thousand times worse." She was otherwise as staunch as ever, though looked to be more than ready to put up a hell of a good fight. And that was just fine with him.

Exgods were useful for their demon-pull. He knew that one personally.

From behind, Gunn made a small noise of complaint. He was staggering still, holding his bleeding side while attempting to maintain balance on the same note. At that, one couldn't help but respect the man. While Spike knew he was likely counting minutes until the lights went out for good, there was no way he would go down without putting in the full of a fight.

And then there was nothing to do but jump into the thick of it. One second standing in firm preparation, the next whisked away on a fair of demon display. The peroxide vampire drew in a deep breath as the bones in his face reverted to form, surges of his own empowering long dead veins. A promise of the last, of course. One last good fight before he called it a night.

Angel had told them all that they would likely be dead before it was over. He had believed him. And as he leaped into the heartland of the herd storming forward, such had never rang more true. Two years running. Two years dead to save the world.

Spike had always known he would go down swinging. His nature would allow nothing else.

There was noise all around him. The endless roars of a society run with every sort of ugly creature the world had ever entertained. Almost immediately, he felt his body pulled into a blackhole of carnage, sucked and jerked in every which direction. The lasting strands of his own wretched claiming. A tugging gasp rose to his throat, and all he knew was to keep swinging. To acquire something of value and jab it in every direction he could. Spike was not necessarily one for forethought, but he always valued himself on being prepared when it came to fighting battles. For this, he had been anything but prepared.

But it was a fight. It was a good fight. And that was all anyone needed to tell him.

It was simple at first. Fun, even. Poetry in bloody motion. Grasping the head of one to deliver a good twist while projecting the nearest could-be weapon into the heart of another. He lost sight of the others quick, but he knew they were still about. Heard the shouted screams of the people he had spent the last few months of his unlife working beside. The dragon no longer circled the air and that didn't surprise him. One thing he had to concede about Peaches—despite his level of annoyance to bystanders, he got the job done when the job needed getting done.

Still, against his better senses, not knowing where his colleagues were didn't rest well with him. He knew it was imperative to disassociate himself from all things that could distract him, that could serve as weaknesses, but he wanted to reassure himself of their well-being. Even Angel's face would be welcome right now, if only to know that he wasn't fighting in vain. Alone.

Something like this, though, could _never _be in vain.

Through the masses, he purged himself. Scars sliced their way to residence across his skin; he felt dead blood trickling through wounds that had not known pain since his bicentennial. The scent of intermingled essence filled the air. The wretched outpour of a thousand different varieties, all meshing in the lasting ends.

He felt his voice tearing at his throat. Felt the weary sting of a thousand inflictions buried within his flesh. Felt the claws of a whatchamacallit dig through layers to reach his skin and stay. He battled them off only to have them come back again. A herd of demons followed by ten thousand more like it. The bloody soul of Wolfram and Hart bleeding from the outrages.

This blow was not fatal to them, he reflected ironically. Wolfram and Hart repaired itself with ease. Every time. All the time. The Los Angeles branch would suffer, yes, but ultimately reestablish itself in some form or another. This was nothing.

They had taken a hit, however. Perhaps they were more offended at the notion that Angel and company had proved that such a drastic thing could occur.

It didn't matter. Spike no longer cared. He would fight with every last beat of energy he possessed. Until the crowds no longer circled him. Until he was dust.

Then something changed. Right out of the dark nothing, something changed.

It began in the ground. A slow, cumbersome rumble that wasted no presumption in gaining quick momentum. The impact lent Spike terrible pause, his eyes going wide—the impromptu standstill from oncoming attacks bearing every mark that scratched his skin to life with luminous reckoning.

"Bugger all!" he screamed, propelled against the nearest brick instant before he could gather himself. Then he turned his annoyance skyward with a darkened scowl, eyes flickering inside intensity that did not know itself. "You bloody bastards! Y'can't tell me you're ready to throw in the rag! Not finished, here!"

Another tremulous quake commanded the ground. The peroxide vampire fell again against the proffered sturdiness, his head wallowing in aggravated misery and sharp shots of furthered pain making their way steadfast across his body. And still, more where that came from. If anything, the tremors seizing the ground grew even stronger—such that the demons were backing off. In fact, they looked about as confused as he was. Nothing could be hidden from retrospect under the pale streetlamps. Not pain nor fear nor uncertainty.

It was just as he was ready to get up and throw himself in the thick of it when a creature he hadn't sensed appeared to his immediate left, jabbing a spear through flesh that had known too many wounds. Spike's eyes went wide and a soundless scream rose to his lips, pain shooting through every cranny that had ever felt the breath of existence. A prodded piece of wood digging farther than any had before presumed. It was stabbed into his side, not fatal but bearing enough pain that felt worthy of death. Speared through his ribs, puncturing organs that had not known use since the eve he was born to vampirehood. Strange. He had been stabbed many times; this took the cake.

But no. No. It was too soon. He couldn't go down like this. Too fucking soon.

The earth was still quaking, giving light to something more thunderous in the distance. And the walls came tumbling down.

The ground seemed swamped the next instant. Where there had been many, there were now more than many. As if all of the world had decided to show up to fight. He couldn't see them. Not for his enhanced eyesight or the limited light provided. But there were suddenly hundreds to battle the baddies away, and he had no idea where they had come from.

Only that it was in time. That the quakes kept coming and the chanting continued.

He was collapsed against a brick wall, holding a projectile in his side. Every breath he took tinged his nerves with further abuse. Spike willed his eyes shut for a few blessed seconds. He wanted to call out for Angel or Illyria, but dared not for the world. They couldn't stop to help him.

And he couldn't sit here from the sidelines. It would get him killed—and all he had fought for would remain in vain.

There was a flash at that. Sudden. Short. Burning with more luminosity than he had ever born witness to. As if the glory of his soul had spurned to life once more. And then softness. Softness he had only known once in the entirety of existence. Something that filled him with peace where there shouldn't be peace.

But that was impossible.

"Spike."

A statement. She sang his name with all the conviction of a nightingale.

The face of his seraph. His siren. Perhaps this was death. Perhaps Angel was wrong about hell. Perhaps his soul got to go to Heaven after all.

Even if he wasn't dead.

For the light that flooded him, it felt like Heaven. Heaven and more so.

And that was the last he knew before the world fell away.

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**To be continued in Part Two: _Quoth the Raven_…**


	2. Quoth the Raven

**A/N**: It's become more apparent to me that _L'Amour _will be on a very brief hiatus until _Hallelujah_ is complete…its progress has been slower the more I get into this. This story is structured for only five parts, though, and with any luck, it will remain as such. Just wanted to give everyone a heads-up.

**Quoth the Raven**

**_15 hours earlier…_**

Wesley watchedwith quiet discordas Illyria studied the secrets of her reflection. She was fascinated—more likely vengeful—with the dried blood that crusted her upper lip, as well as the texture that mapped her face with the newly drawn incisions. It was to be understood. Older than time and she had never truly felt pain. Never been in a brawl that resulted in her loss. Now she was bleeding. The paint of crimson against her tinted skin looked odd even to him. And she was enchanted. Enchanted, and more than a little angry.

A dry, humorless chuckle rose to his throat. Humiliation was a vindictive bitch, uncaring of whom she struck.

"I find it strange that I still excrete these vile fluids hours after acquiring the wounds that bore them," she observed. "My skin feels hot there, and it sends an ache through my arm whenever the pressure is increased." She shook her head distastefully. "The human system is so odd. So frail and weak. With any minor infliction, all it takes—"

The last thing he needed at present was another reminder of the human condition and its many fallacies. Thus, Wesley held up a hand with dry indifference. "My advice, then," he replied monotonously. "Don't touch it."

That was all he said before he turned away, and no sooner did he feel the burn of her gaze boring into the back of his throat. That was funny. Despite everything, she still managed to take offense, even surprise, when he dared raise his voice to her in a manner of sarcasm or indifference. That was fair as well, he observed.

And then he didn't care very much at all.

"You presume to poke fun at my duress," Illyria retorted coldly. "I would have yanked your entrails out by now for the low esteem in which you regard me. You too often forget your place."

"About as often as you forget yours." He shook his head. "And you misjudge me, my dear. If you were to reach for my insides, you would find them ripped out already. There is nothing there of value."

She glanced down at that, as though the reminder humbled her, however laughable the thought might be. "You speak again of her."

"I speak of no one other than myself." Wesley turned a bit, rising to his feet to reach his cell phone. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have a call to make." With that, he very intently turned his back on her and turned his attention to the self-made task that would solidify his lasting means. The numbers punched into the dial could never be eradicated, despite how fervently he tried.

Strange. It only took that to bring back memories of his father, and his gut clinched with expected dread. There was nothing there to suggest it. Only that his ties to the Council were irrefutably drawn with blood, and even the more positive aspects of their circle could not escape his own tainting by association. His father haunted every corner of his memory still. The lasting part of his crumpling will.

A wry smile spread across his lips. It was fitting that the last of his own humanity belonged to a man who bore none.

"Yes," he said after a moment. "I am looking for Rupert Giles."

Illyria made no noise when she moved—not unless she wanted to be heard. And yet, it came as no surprise when she was behind him the next minute, leering over his shoulder contemplatively. She would naturally assume everything to be her business. "I take it your leader remains ignorant to your persistence in executing your own commands behind his back."

Wesley favored her with a dry glance. "This is not an order. If anything should happen, I would like someone to know why."

"And this…Rupert Giles is worthy of such a privilege?"

The solemn smile expanded, and he perked his brows with witless irony. "Were it not for Rupert Giles, I would not be standing here." He let that thought sink in. "I will decide later whether or not to kill him for it."

"You grow clumsy in your insubordination."

"You mistake clumsiness with apathy." Wesley turned away the next minute, bringing the phone back to his attention with intent. "Yes, Giles. This is Wesley. Yes, it has been a long time. Things are…" He stilled, releasing a taut breath that made every fiber of his being ache. "Things are, well, normal, I suppose. Listen, I am calling because Angel…we're taking on the Black Thorn." He made the obligatory pause. "Yes, I am aware that such is essentially declaring war on Wolfram and Hart. This has been in the works for months. It is hardly out of the blue. I…I just wanted to let you know that should…should anything happen, that's why." Another long sigh shuddered through his body. "Our association with Wolfram and Hart was a fluke, understand. Angel decided such after Cordelia died. Yes, she died. She and…" He paused once more, willing his eyes closed. "And a…a young woman you never met. Listen, Rupert, I do not have long. I was just calling to make sure that someone had a record of what happened should we not survive. I don't know why I did it…call it an old habit that I wish myself rid of. Yes. Well, do not question anything." Another break. Wesley finally turned to Illyria, finding her stare as cold, however inquisitive, as ever. "Yes, Angel made it very clear that we will not survive. I do not intend for that threat to extend to me, but one must always be prepared. And bearing that in mind…I should also tell you that Spike is here and with us."

That was most assuredly the wrong thing to say.

"I do not have time to go into the how's and why's of what occurred. He has been with us for months now. No, Andrew mentioned nothing because Spike did not want Buffy to know. Well, I don't know why, do I? Do with the information what you like. I'm sorry, now. Must be going."

He cut the call while Giles was still in erratic midsentence. He allowed himself a moment of collection that coincided with the deep-rooted wonder of what had gotten into him. He didn't care; he truly didn't care, but perhaps out of that came just enough to merit understanding.

"Well then," he said after a minute, turning back to Illyria. "We might as well have a look at those cuts."

A last day. Quite possibly _his_ last day. Angel had said so but he did not believe it. The night bore no intention of masking his final step. And still, he of all people knew that things did not always go as one planned.

And if today truly were his last day; he would like to spend it with the one he loved. Illyria was hardly that, she looked just enough like Fred without being her to give him some pained form of non-solace.

That would do just fine.

* * *

**_Two days later…_**

It wasn't as though they could call it a coma; as far as anyone knew, vampires did not experience comas. For the better part, he simply lay in the peaceful quiet of the hospital wing. His wounds had disappeared within the first six hours of his admittance—all except the one marking his side, but the granted medical staff assured them that he would be up to par before the last of the transformation occurred.

They were still trying to pinpoint who had made it and who had not. Gunn's body was found the day before, a dagger in one hand and a stake in the other. He would be granted a hero's funeral when full recovery of their bearings was made. Wesley was uncovered immediately. In that instance, they had known where to look.

Those who had survived almost suffered a worse fare. There were dead Slayers and more than one witch lost to the coven. Angel, on the other hand had been released nearly at once, more to the general disapproval of the medical staff. Hospitals made him edgy, he said. Especially those that treated otherworldly patients. And he had wagered that Spike would need the bulk of the attention, anyway, for he was assuredly about to undergo the most drastic change of his existence.

There was no doubt there, he said. The Powers had chosen, and he had forfeited the lasting remnants of his own hope for solitude. He willed himself away, granting a parting farewell to her, and left finally to pursue Nina before she left him for good. He promised he would return for the funerals, but no one truly believed him. As it was his way, he would say goodbye without having to look at the lifeless faces of those that had served his side well for the past five years. That was understandable. Some things were merely too painful, even for a vampire that had seen it all.

Illyria had sustained significant damage but was expected to live. She was situated in the wing with the bulk of the Slayers that had put themselves in the crossfire. And while the coven had sustained damage, by comparison, they were best off of any that had laid their lives on the line.

Giles had naturally taken to studying the humanoid demon during her periods of rest. Angel had given him as much information about Illyria before he left as possible; Willow had automatically gone into a period of mourning in memory of Fred.

"I know I didn't know her that well," she had said. "But she was so nice."

Angel had nodded solemnly, eyes glued to the figure filling the hospital bed. "It was Wesley that sustained the most significant hit with her death," he had explained softly. "I'd like to think that he's at peace now…with himself and what happened."

Giles related the nature of their phone call and noted how strained the man had sounded. Granted while years had gone since they had seen each other, there was nothing resembling the man he once knew within what he was presented, even miles away. "He seemed apathetic. And if he did care, it was as though his caring worried him. As though caring made him too human for his taste."

"Perhaps it did," Angel had replied. "Wes died with Fred. You must understand that. Whatever kept him with us in the afterward was pushed onward only by an obligation he felt he needed to fulfill." A sigh had rumbled off his chest at that, and he had offered a short smile. "Thankfully, he did so, and not without committing a mutiny that likely saved our lives."

"I only wish we had gotten here sooner," Willow had reflected.

"You got here as soon as you could."

"It was hasty. Gathering a coven and as many Slayers together as possible." She had looked at the ground then, cheeks tinting lightly. "Wes told us about Spike. When Buffy heard, she…"

Angel had nodded, evidently unmoved. "I understand."

And that was the end of that. He had said his goodbyes and left. Now all was left to the tedious matter of waiting.

Waiting.

Willow and Giles were seated side by side in the perpetual hall of the infirmary. It was a time where words seemed superfluous in context and useless in nature. With everything that had occurred in the past forty-eight hours, there was too much to draw in without relying on the specifics of knowledge.

How long they sat in the companionable disquiet of shared solitude, neither could say. In all likelihood it was only minutes, but time and logic were not working hand-in-hand these days. It was Willow who broke it, her thoughts penetrating the boundary of grievance, and she could hold herself in no longer.

"I can't believe he's gone."

Giles glanced to her but did not reply.

"I mean, it's not like we knew him really well anymore, right?" The redhead shook her head. "I saw him last year when…he had changed a lot. He was so…pained. His vibes were…I just couldn't…" She expelled a long breath, head rolling back as she cast her gaze heavenward. "Just when you think you're getting used to the death thing."

The Watcher smiled grimly at that, patting her knee in empty assurance. "One can never adjust to death," he said. "Not without losing all sense of humanity."

"It just wasn't what…and Fred. You never met Fred, and I guess that Illyria girl is her now, but Fred was such a darling." A shuddering sigh escaped her lips and she shivered slightly. "I think not living on the Hellmouth has spoiled me."

Giles regarded her with wry amusement. "And to think…it's only been a year."

"She's with him now, isn't she?"

"I would imagine so. I don't believe she has left his side since she found him."

Willow nodded slowly. "And she knows? About everything? Angel was pretty specific in what he thought was going to happen."

"It makes sense to me. Before this came about, the Powers were drawn at a standstill. One vampire had technically fulfilled the prophecy but another stood in the way." The Watcher paused, then removed his glasses and consigned them to the hem of his shirt as was habit he could never eradicate. "I told her what would happen, but I don't know if she heard me. Or rather…that she understood."

"It's hard on her, Giles. She thought he was dead for over a year."

"Yes." A scowl befell the Watcher's face. "And making rather foolish judgment calls in the light of that upheaval, I might add."

"The Immortal?"

He shook his head. "I seriously don't know what got into her."

Willow smiled coyly. "Well, did you _see _him? He was rather…" She received a harsh look in turn and immediately fell silent, eyes falling despondently to her lap. "Right. Bad. Very, very bad. B-but at least—"

"If there's any good to Spike being thrown back into her life," Giles said. "It got her away from _him. _I'm still half convinced there was a spell involved."

"No spell."

"But Buffy wouldn't—"

"Trust me. I know spells. I know how to sense spells. Plus, one of the first things you made me do when I got back to Rome was do that spell-detector spell. There was no spell." Willow sighed. "The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced she was just trying to…move on. You know how long that took her."

The Watcher frowned, notably displeased. "I still believe she could have implemented a little judgment." There was a still pause. "You're beyond positive that there was—"

"No. Spell." Willow glared at him for his persistence but faded a minute later, placing a neutral hand on his arm. "But no love, either. From either one of them. You saw the way The Immortal pursued chicks…and sometimes…well, you know…not-chicks. He was too caught up in his own reputation to give her much more thought than she gave him when they weren't together. I think he was a big Riley to her. The not-meant-to-be-transitional-but-turns-into-transitional guy."

There was another brief silence. Giles sighed and settled in his chair uncomfortably. "I don't know about the rest of it," he said. "This business with Spike…"

"It's what she wants."

"I know. I don't _like _it, but I know."

"No one's big on the wagon, here," she concluded. "But Buffy deserves happiness. And while she hasn't been miserable…at least for these last two months, she hasn't been happy. She's been living in the delusion of happy while settling in the comfy middle."

"I think you're forgetting something."

Willow frowned.

"What if Spike no longer wants her?"

The redhead blinked slowly, then shook her head. That wasn't even within the realm of reasonability. "I—"

"He didn't contact her. Not when he first came back, not when we sent Andrew to collect the renegade Slayer, and not when he and Angel ventured to Europe…twice, I might add." Giles glanced upward. "There's every possibility that he's moved on."

"With how much he—"

"There's no need to remind me of 'how much he' anything where Buffy is concerned. I merely want to be prepared. Of what he's been doing in the months since he came back, we do not know. He might have another life. He might be in love with another woman. He might have done what Angel inevitably did and moved on, realizing that he couldn't give her what she needed." The Watcher shook his head. "There are a thousand possibilities, Willow. I don't want to see Buffy hurt again, especially after what it took to get her over his death. We can be certain of nothing until he awakes."

Despite the fallacy in logic, there was no arguing with that. A few months before, the Witch would have denied the possibility of Buffy getting involved with someone so soon, but she had been with The Immortal, living her picture of happiness. It pained her to see her as she was. Comfortable but not happy. In like but not in love. After everything she had suffered, she deserved something that she wanted. Not something she settled for.

Best friends were amazingly astute when it came to such things. For the same reason, Buffy had coaxed her through the fall of her relationship with Kennedy and made her realize that because one had ended, another was still out there. That just because her relationship with Tara was the big one didn't mean she was a failure if the one afterward wasn't.

In that, they had rekindled what had been lost for nearly two years and redeveloped the groundwork of a friendship too precious to lose for things such as duty and distance. Together, they had mourned. Willow had realized that she was not ready so soon to jump the gun with someone after losing the love of her life, and appropriately ended it with Kennedy before it could become too serious. Before the break could hurt worse than it did. And Buffy had shared the woes of her bad luck with men. Her own self-loathing at finding the one that had loved her unconditionally and treating him to such a point that he didn't even believe her when she finally told him what she felt. What he had so long deserved to hear.

They were close now. Closer than ever before. And while Giles's concerns were valid, she hoped beyond hope that he was wrong. True chances at happiness were few and far between. Buffy had been handed too many and passed them up before she knew how to recognize a good thing. If this last one proved her too late, the damage could be inexorable.

For all that she had seen, there was nothing to do but hope. They had arrived at the whim of a call, but Willow knew that it was for Spike that Buffy had tagged along. She had no true purpose here aside him. With Slayers populating the earth, she could have just as well stayed in Italy and allowed the others to deal with the apocalypse.

"Saved the world," she muttered.

Giles nodded. "Yes. Again."

"Think we'll ever have to not do that?"

"I rather hope not."

Willow frowned. "Why?"

"I believe if ever we came to a point where saving the world was no longer imperative, it would be because we had failed." The Watcher smiled wanly. "We're very good at what we do."

There was no arguing with that. "Getting better all the time."

That was all. The clandestine silence encircled once more and left no survivors. There was simply nothing to do but wait.

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In all his years, Spike reckoned he had never known such softness. It was all around him. Everywhere. Encompassing every inch of him with the pure radiance of suggestion. Distantly, a warning bell sounded within depths of reason that screamed the wrongness of being.

_Dead. Dead. I'm dead._

But no. He wasn't. He remembered being dead. Really dead. It didn't feel like this. It didn't feel so blissful.

Someone was pacing across the floor. That was the first sound he heard. Pacing, then breathing. Heavy breathing. The scent of tears thickened the room like oil, and his heart instantly broke at the feel of it.

The scent grew with identity and bade him stop and instantaneous retribution. There was no denying it. He would recognize its richness anywhere.

But wait. That wasn't right.

He emanated a purposeful sigh and the pacing stopped. And slowly, he allowed his eyes to open.

And every nerve in his body froze.

_Heaven. I'm dead. This is Heaven. I got in. Oh God._

A voice then. His symphony. Soft, imploring, melodic. Nothing to compare.

"…Spike?"

He released a hissing breath, sitting up in disbelief, his eyes taking in the scene before him. It was real, then. Real. God, it _looked_ real. The picture of his salvation. The siren that drew his blood home.

It wasn't possible. Not _possible_.

But she was here.

Spike's mouth fell open, but he immediately lost whatever it was he wanted to say. All that remained was the sound of her name. And strangely, at the moment, it was all he needed.

"Buffy."

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**To be continued in Part Three: _Let Her Cry_…**


	3. Let Her Cry

**A/N:** Some major coolness. _Harbingers of Beatrice _won Best Crossover and was runner-up for Best Romance at Love's Last Glimpse awards. My endless awe and thanks to whoever was kind enough to nominate me, as well as all my wonderful readers. Thank you!

Also, there has been some dispute about The Immortal. I've heard some say one thing, and others say another. (Obviously, as all disputes go) For my purposes, he was a vampire.

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**Let Her Cry**

His voice was raspy with disuse, and there was an odd, unpleasant flavor haunting his mouth. But in all honesty, that was an afterthought.

He was looking at Buffy. And she was looking back.

A still air huddled the atmosphere, daring them to break the solace of non-understanding. Non-understanding was good. It was safe and refrained from the harder issues that would only hurt once deciphered. The sparks drawn between their gazes alone were enough to drown the most capable of beings.

Then she was speaking. "I…uhhh…water. Would you like a glass of water?"

A glass of water?

His look must have grown skeptical, for she immediately flushed and glanced down, hands clasping nearly piously in front of her. "I…your throat sounds hoarse."

"'S a li'l scratchy."

"I can get you a glass of water. That'll help."

There was a pause as he attempted to collect himself. Gathering the bearings of all that had occurred while maintaining a pathway to a simpler self-structure. "What happened?"

"You've been out for a couple days. I found you, and you were out." She smiled softly, returning to his side with a glass of water. Spike snatched it from her grasp without fully realizing the hand that offered, guzzling it down as though his body suddenly depended on it.

"More?"

He nodded. She disappeared and returned again with a refill. His previous cynicism forgotten, he drank as though there was no bearing end. So much that dribbles rolled down his chin—unshaven? Strange—but he didn't care. And somewhere in the middle of it all, the lasting strands of the final battle came soaring back, and he threw his head back with a gasp.

"What happened?" he asked again.

Her eyes were calm and betrayed nothing. She was simply studying him. "You and Angel took on Wolfram and Hart, remember?"

Spike thought for a minute before he nodded. "Did we win?"

There was a kind, respectful smile at that. "Yeah."

"Did everyone make it? 'S Charlie an' Illyria an' Peaches…where are they?" His brow furrowed in concentration. "Wes's dead. I remember that. Where's everyone else?"

"Illyria's the blue one, right?"

He nodded.

"She's alive. Recuperating. Angel's fine, too. He left to go find his girlfriend or something." She cast her eyes downwards. "Charles Gunn? Is that the other one you mentioned?" There was another nod of confirmation; he knew where this one was going. "They're saying he didn't last long. He took down what he could, but he died."

Spike couldn't find reaction at that. He opted for the safer silence.

Before it finally dawned on him that he was sitting here, talking with the Slayer. His Slayer. That she was with him at all.

And he looked up again in astonishment.

"Buffy…what are you doin' here?" He squinted and attempted to sit up, the motion causing shards of pain to itch through injured skin and attack every raw nerve that remained vibrant with verve. A small groan edged through his lips, and he shook his head to wane the feeling away. "Come to think of it…what am _I _doin' here? Where are we?"

She pursed her lips and considered him. It was then he noticed she was trembling. His Slayer was trembling. Well, that was odd. He was still half-convinced that he was dreaming or—at worst—dead, and thus did not inquire. The idea that she would be here with him now, of all times, was inconceivable.

"We're in a hospital."

He couldn't help it; he quirked a brow. "A what?"

"A hospital."

"A real one?"

She shifted slightly and a humorless chuckle rumbled through her lips, touched again with a bit of her own nervousness. It was such a strange color on her. Despite everything, Spike didn't reckon he had ever seen the Slayer thoroughly unhinged to the point where she didn't know what to say. At least toward the end. In the disastrous turmoil that had been their relationship, she had often come unglued, but never to the point of losing her ability to voice what she was thinking. "Well," she replied, voice oddly high-pitched. "It's not a movie-set, that's for sure."

He merely looked at her.

"Uhhh…Giles said it was some infirmary for beings of the demonic persuasion." She shrugged. "It was the only place we could think to bring you."

Well, that explained the searing pain.

"Bring me? What happened?"

And suddenly, she was in control again. Just like that. No transitional period of adjustment. No collecting herself for his benefit. In a flash, her insecurity vanished and she was as he remembered her. A tower of strength. Fortitude pouring off her body in waves so powerful he was amazed that he hadn't yet drowned, even if such was impossible.

"You tell me," she replied coolly. "Three days ago, I was in Italy, minding my own business, then I get this call from Giles that says Angel's taking on Wolfram and Hart. And here's the really funny part—he said you were alive."

Spike blinked and ignored the pain that jabbed his side for no reason other than it was there and wanted to be remembered. He was staring at her with such intensity that he nearly forgot everything else.

"Not alive, pet. Still dead. Jus' less dead than the last time you saw me." He offered a dry chuckle, wincing as he moved to sit up a little more. "Guess I owe that last part to you an' the Scoobs, right? Bloody rot, what does it take to keep you an' yours out of every apocalypse? We had this one handled."

"You were dying."

"Vamps don' die from picks at our sides, luv. I'd hope as a Slayer, you'd've picked that up by now."

"If Willow and her coven hadn't been there, you, Angel, and that blue girl would've been lost. But goddammit, Spike, that's not the point." Her eyes were wide now; demanding, imploring. She looked to be on the edge of collapse already. As though seeing him lent pause to every vibe of internal strength she had ever mustered. "You've…you're here. You…you…"

"Yeh. An' I'm noticin' you are, too. Don' you have some bloody replacement to be snoggin' right about now? Talk, dark…soulless, I might add." He shook his head with an ironic, bitter chuckle. "Y'know, I can't decide what's funnier. The endin' result where you come here actin' like I've been a righteous wanker when you've obviously been havin' the bloody time of your life, or the part where all of a sudden, you don' care if your current lay has a sparkly conscience in his benefit. Gotta say, Slayer. Love your versatility." He snorted and turned away, doing his damndest to ignore the sparks of pain that shot behind her eyes. "Guess I can't begrudge you, though, right? Gettin' a soul was for my own good. 'm so glad that it still matters to you."

The imminence of her tears grew even sharper. "That's not fair."

"Ask me 'f I care. Guess I owe you one for the rescue bit, but for everythin' else, consider us even." He cocked his head heatedly. "Jus' don' come here preachin' that I've wronged you by not ringin' you up the bloody instant I got mojo'ed back 'f I was so bloody expendable."

She stared at him for a long, silent moment. He still refused to look at her. It was strange, changing seasons so effortlessly. The instant bout of glee that had burst through his system was immeasurably beat down for reminder of everything he didn't want to remember. Flashes of death alongside the image he had done his best to eradicate of her and the bloody Immortal shagging like bunnies. The days following his leave of Italy had been easier to deal with than they could have been because he knew what lied ahead. Ignoring what was eating away at his insides was simply a matter of prioritizing. Forgetting what he had seen. What he knew.

But despite everything, he couldn't block it all out. And in the few beats he had allowed himself between trying to figure out why Angel was suddenly playing for the wrong team to deciding what poems to read for his audience, the frustration he had felt in Italy had transcended to hurt and anger.

Buffy with The Immortal. With the soulless Immortal. As if his gift to her had not meant a thing. As if everything she had put him through when he was trying to win her heart was in vain. As if everything they had ever shared meant a resounding and definitive nothing.

Thus he had blocked it. Refused himself to consider his angered hurt. __

It was different with her standing here. And God, why _was _she standing here? Why now? To rub salt on the many wounds he was sporting? To make it hurt worse? This was not what he needed, especially with the face he knew she wore. The narcissism of it all only served to deepen the scorn.

Didn't bloody matter how much he had looked forward to seeing her again. How much he had missed her. All of that was gone. It couldn't be up for sale. And now that he was back to himself, he remembered everything.

When she spoke again, he could hear the steady slide of tears in her voice. The same that she covered well but not well enough. "This is not how I imagined it," she whispered. "Not how I imagined our first…after you woke up."

"Yeh," he retorted coldly. "Take it from me, sweetheart, things don' always go as you imagine them."

"Spike…"

"In fact, 'f you take a chapter outta my book, things usually end up pretty shitty."

"It's over, Spike." That coaxed his eyes back to her, his eyes wide and imploring. He wisely ignored the way his chest constricted at the emotion she bade him. Buffy plus emotion equaled him at her beck and call, and he couldn't stand for that. Not now. Not now when all she had to do was pinch him to make it hurt worse than ever before. "With…I'm no longer seeing The Immortal."

He quirked his head. "So sorry, luv. Here. Want me to ring up the orderly an' have 'em bring you some tissue?"

"Stop it."

"Well, I understand he is a world-class lover. That must be rough."

It felt good for the first few seconds; watching her pain deepen as he twisted the knife to see how much he could make her bleed. Anger was easy. He knew anger. And the hurt she gave him extended to the very beginning of their relationship. But as the silence between them expanded uncomfortably, the pang striking his heart cried out its remorse. And suddenly, it wasn't fun anymore.

"You big idiot," she finally gasped, wiping at her eyes. "I'm the one that ended it. I told him sayonara and came here. To you."

"Grand gesture, that is."

Buffy shook her head, hands going to her temples. "You didn't even try, Spike. Hell, Andrew tells me you told him not to mention that you were alive. That you were all right." A sob choked through her throat and she sent an impatient stomp to the floor. "Christ, do you know what I went through?"

"So much that you started shagging random vamps to see 'f all went good 'cause of you? 'F so, sorry to disappoint you, Sweets. "I'm one of a bloody kind." Spike sat up a little, heaving a tired breath at his effort. "An' I tried. Several times. Was ghostly there for a while, but once Wolfram an' Hart decided to give me my skin back, I was off beatin' Peaches for some bloody prophecy that turned out to be bollocks. Then things got hairy. People I cared about started dyin'. An' by the time we received word from you, you were shaggin' The Immortal. So honestly, tell me, sweetheart, what's a bloke to think?"

"That he doesn't know all the facts."

"Andrew says you snuggle."

"You and I snuggled."

"Toward the end when you knew there was gonna be nothin'. Yeh, you let down your walls. Let me have one bloody night when you weren' judgin' me. When you let me believe anythin' about us could ever be real." Spike sat up further, his eyes glistening with intent. "Don' get me wrong. We were on the way to somethin', there. But I guess that ship's sailed. No more where I come from. 'm through playin' at this angle, luv. 'm through tryin' to guess what you're thinkin'. I've done everythin' I can. I turned the world upside down for you, then right side up again. I sought out my soul 'cause of what it meant for you. For us. I bloody well saved the world so that you could live in it. Me an' my soul. One cute li'l couple we are."

Buffy shook her head heatedly, somehow ignoring the tears that were mapping down her face. "You don't know what I went through," she spat in return. "Every day after you were gone. It didn't really sink in until we stopped that night for a motel that you weren't with us. Not until I realized I was by myself. And then my world collapsed, Spike. My whole world collapsed because you weren't there."

"Funny. An' here, I always thought you wanted me gone."

"Not _then. _Not with what we had."

He chuckled humorlessly at that. "'S that right? An' what exactly did we have? A house in the suburbs with a white picket fence an' the two point five kids you've always dreamed of? You make it sound like there was somethin' to salvage. Tell me, luv, when did we ever have anythin' to save? You spent most nights tryin' to convince me that my leavin' was the best thing that could happen to you."

"Not after you came back! Not after—"

"The soul. Right. An' you've made perfectly clear how much _those _matter to you."

She stared at him with wan amazement; the light behind her eyes finally coaxing him to look away again. "You think it doesn't matter to me?" she whispered, astonished. "You really think that I don't…that what you did doesn't…Spike, what you did changed my life. It made me…I don't even know what it made me, and I didn't realize how it had changed my life until it was changed. Until…" She stifled a sob, wiping her eyes irritably. "Until you were gone."

Spike tried hard to ignore how those words affected him. He didn't want to give her that. Didn't want to believe anything she was saying. He needed so desperately to remain angry with her. To maintain that much of himself. To remember how he felt the moment that he realized everything he had sacrificed meant…

But with her standing so near. With the scent of her tears perturbing the air…he came close to losing all sense of self. And dammit, he needed his anger.

Perhaps that was all that love had taught him. How to hurt someone before they had a chance of hurting him. It made sense. With everything he knew, everything he had experienced, there was nothing but pain to be bought from reckoning.

"'ve changed, too," he said a minute later. "'m not some wide-eyed heartsick fool. You taught me how to outgrow that. I don' need this right now. I have…there are others…you can't jus' barge into my life whenever you bloody well feel like it! I din't with yours. I stayed away. Right where I was s'posed to. I—"

Buffy held up a hand, drawing his gaze back to her. She was as white as a sheet.

"Others?"

"Come again?"

"Are you…" She paused, her own eyes falling shut. "Are you…with someone else?"

Might as well go for below the belt. She had hurt him; turnabout was fair play. "Aside from shaggin' Harm, no."

The look that pained her face made him instantly regret that he had even mentioned that daft bint. And that was why he had to run with it. That reason for retribution. For what hurt _him _the most was the knowledge that he loved her now more than ever before. For who she was and what she gave. The light half to his darkened shadow. Buffy was his light. His goddess. His salvation. He loved her so much, and that gave her the power to hurt him. Whether or not she meant to.

The next breath she took was uncertain and trembled against the strain of her despondency. "You're with Harmony?"

Spike softened at that. Not much, but some. There was no reason to purposefully mislead her. "No, luv. I'm not. Jus' once…an' that was right after I was mojo'ed back in the full. I jus'…I needed to work out the hardware, y'know?"

"Oh, so you got on my case for waiting for months before even looking at another man and you're off screwing the first leggy blonde that crosses your path?"

"I was thinkin' about you, 'f it makes you feel any better." But dammit, no. He wasn't supposed to try and make her feel better. And yet, he kept on talking. "An' she knew. Harm did. She bit me an' she yelled at me for thinkin' about you. 'Course, she was under some wonky spell, but 's the thought that counts."

Buffy nodded sardonically. "And I suppose that's supposed to make it all right?"

"You tell me. Mine was straight up sex. Yours was a relationship with a soulless vampire." He cocked his head inquisitively. "Tell me, sweetheart, did you beat the livin' piss outta him in some alley for offerin' to protect you with his life? Did you call him an' evil, disgustin' thing every time he looked at you? Touched you? When he was whisperin' sweet nothing's in your ear, did you turn back to him an' remind him that he's not a man, an' he can never touch that part of you that you reserve for the real heroes in your life? 'Cause, honey, 'm liable to get jealous 'f you did. That was somethin' jus' for us. I don' like sharin' my song with others."

She shook her head, glaring at him through her tears. "You bastard."

"Goes with the territory." Spike favored her with a long leer. "I don' bend over backwards anymore, luv. Not for you. Not for anyone. 'F you thought comin' here would change my mind…"

"I thought you cared about me."

He stilled a little at that, battling back the multitude of 'I love yous' that fought his mouth and will for release. Fought the urge in his arms that begged him to take her into a comforting embrace and reassure her that he would always be here if she needed him. That a thousand deaths in a thousand years and all the blood in the world could never eradicate how much he loved her. How much he wanted to go to her over the past few months. How he drew himself to the point that he was wasting his own time, wallowing in the pitiful ruins of yesterday.

"Why did you come here?" he retorted, straying safely to the side of the road that wouldn't see his efforts instantaneously flattened.

She glanced down. "We had to save the world. Wesley called. I told you that."

"So you jumped on your sodding white horse an' came in to rescue all its lovely li'l bits, 's that it?"

"Something like."

"Anyone ever tell you that hell is paved with good Samaritans?"

Buffy rumbled a sigh and looked up again. "You, Spike. I came here for you. Giles told me that Wes wanted me to know, and I came here because I had to…because you were here."

"You ended it with loverboy for me?"

"Yes! That's what I've been trying to tell you. That's what—"

"For all you know, I could've been with someone by now." He instantly berated himself for the way her face fell again, but refused to backtrack. "Knew you were lost to me."

"You told me once that another girl would never mean anything to you."

"Romantics talk. I was a lovesick fool. An' even so, you really s'pect me to spend the whole of eternity by myself?" He was lying now. All out lying. Turning his back on every nerve in his body that commanded him otherwise. And the part of him that demanded her blood in turn for all the pain she had caused him called out in jubilee. The rest of him died all over again, only it wasn't as easy this time around.

"…And are you? With anyone?"

There was a still beat. "Thought I told you."

"You told me you aren't with Harmony. But—"

Spike leaned back speculatively. "Well, there was Fred there for a while. Winifred." He felt the urge to clarify when her eyes widened in astonishment. "Wesley's girl. Thought she'd taken a shine to me." One more look from her solidified it; he couldn't go on pretending. Thus with a defeated sigh, he glanced down and shook his head. "No. 'm not with anyone."

"And what you said? What you told me?"

"I still mean every word of it. I always will."

Buffy cried out in angered frustration, her arms falling to her sides. "Then why…I'm here because I want…I've missed you. I've missed you so much. More than I ever thought I could miss a person. And yes, I've lived. I've moved on. I got over the part where I mourned you and I started to be me again. Dating being one of them. But I didn't forget you. And I thought…"

"What? That you'd show up, rescue me from the baddies, an' we'd live happily ever after?"

There was no answer; she shifted uncomfortably but nothing more.

"'F there was one thing you taught me, luv, 's that there is no happily ever after. I tried givin' you the world an' you threw it back at me." He shook his head. "An' the amazin' thing is, while it aggravated the hell outta me, I always figured at some level or another that I deserved it. I am a vampire. I am a monster. I am responsible for much of the slaughter in late nineteenth century Europe. But I was never that to you. Never. Not after I loved you. But it wasn' enough, an' I accepted that. Bloody hell, I _proved _it to myself the night I…" He trailed off, flinching at the faintest memory of what he had almost done. There was an obligatory pause before he felt he could continue. "But seein' you in Italy…bein' that bloody close…an' knowin' that after everythin' I'd sacrificed for you was worth rot. It jus'…there can be no happy endin' for us. It hurts to even look at you. An' I can't get past that."

The sound of her tear-scented breaths filled the air in place of words, and the torment in her voice nearly killed him when she spoke again. "You…you can't mean that."

Spike swallowed hard and gathered himself. If he wavered, he would collapse with her around him, and never let her go.

He _had _to let her go.

For both their sakes.

Thus, when he felt he could, he summoned the entirety of his conviction and met her eyes with more of what could not be doubted. Buried there beneath the burden of self-discovery. What he knew without wanting to know. The nuisance of understanding burned him to the core of reasonability, but he would not back away. Not now.

Not like this.

He was killing them both just to see if he could get away with it.

"Then how come I do?"

And that was it. All he could say. Everything that he could muster summarized in five simple words. And he watched as the woman he loved dissolved into tears because of his refusal. Because of everything he could not let her have. For all the pain he couldn't push him through again.

Spike wanted to go to her more than anything. But he didn't. Instead, he turned away as she continued to weep. Success had never tasted so bitter.

He could only hope she drowned them both with her tears.

**To be continued in Part Four: _Whisper Words of Wisdom_…**


	4. Whisper Words of Wisdom

****

**Whisper Words of Wisdom**

Spike didn't realize that he had fallen asleep until he started awake in the iron darkness of his wing. It took a few minutes for everything to come rushing back, but not nearly as long as he would have liked. He indulged a few minutes to himself; releasing small, quaking breaths that made his body tremble for the weight of their unexpected necessity. He had never felt the urge to breathe before as he did now. It burned him with need. As though the weight of existence depended on it.

It didn't take long to decipher that he wasn't alone in the room. Another beat and he knew he wasn't even alone in the bed. Her sweet scent encompassed him, tied in with the knowledge of the tears she had shed. It angered and hurt all within the same swoop. Those were two emotions he could easily learn to live without.

He had hoped that their earlier conversation would have put an end to this, because he wasn't sure how reliable his defenses were. It was a hard bargain, driving a man who finally had what he had wanted for years to a point where accepting meant the denial of everything he was. Buffy was in his bed because she wanted to be. She had traveled across the ocean because this was where she said she belonged. She had ended it with The Immortal because he was alive. She was offering her hand in unity. A chance at everything he had wanted for so long.

But she had betrayed him. She had betrayed him and herself. Her own bloody convictions. The weight of every promise she gave that he had never doubted. The feel of her impounding self-loathing as it poured onto his being. He couldn't take it. Not from her. Not after everything they had gone through together.

He was not going to be some consolation prize.

Spike's hands fisted. He couldn't have her. She was off-limits.

A small whimper rang through the air and he felt her shudder behind him. And he realized the next instant that she was awake. She was awake and crying.

Oh God.

_Can't give me a bloody break, can you?_

He didn't know if he was demanding that of God or his own weakened resolution. He hated tears. Hated them on himself but most especially on people he loved. When Buffy wept, it crumpled everything he was.

At that moment, he would have given everything in the world not to love her as he did, because this was going to cause more pain than he felt he deserved. And not for what he should say.

For what he shouldn't.

"Buffy?" There was a jump and a sharp gasp. He was surprised that she hadn't sensed him awaken. Spike drew in a breath and switched sides to face her, his eyes taking in the expanse of her back with a watering gaze and hands that ached to touch her. "Pet? Come on, don' do this."

"Sorry," she said hoarsely.

"We're beyond sorry's. Have been for years."

He immediately regretted saying it, but did not offer to take it back. And she did not call him on it. Instead, she shivered and nodded her agreement, remaining steadfast with her back to him, shifting slightly so he could see her hand playing with the pillow.

"I meant for waking you up. I just…I couldn't go out there yet."

Spike swallowed hard, quivered, and caved. He needed to touch her, if only once. If only to feel that what she had offered him was real. He knew it would likely and rightly sign away his undoing, but he could no sooner stop himself than rip the part of his heart that she owned out of his chest so he could respectively return it. The feel of her was amazing. The way her skin trembled beneath his touch. The whimpering sigh she released at his feel.

He allowed himself this. Closed his eyes briefly to absorb her. Buffy. His Slayer. His goddess.

His own personal Judas Iscariot.

"Don' cry," he whispered. "Please don' cry."

Buffy hardened a bit at that. He didn't blame her. "It's not like I have a choice here."

Spike perked a brow in spit of himself. "'F I'm bein' unfair, then please tell me how. 'Cause the way I see it…"

"No." A small ripple ran through her, and finally she turned to face him. She must have expected his touch to disappear at movement, but it did not. He would not forfeit what little he allowed himself so easily.

But it was even more difficult with her this close. With her warmth enveloping him. With everything they had sacrificed coming together.

Then she started speaking. And his world fell away.

"I wished sometimes that I had died with you, you know?"

"Rot. Don' say that."

"Not because you were gone." There was a shiver and she sighed heavily against his touch. "I could live again. And I did. It was the best thing anyone had ever done for me. But I don't know how to live. Eight years fighting, two times dead, and you kinda forget how to live." Buffy chuckled humorlessly. "I didn't have a death wish. I've had too many of those. And I don't think it was ever…serious. Me wanting to be dead. But my world turned upside down so fast. I knew it was going to happen. Hell, I preached about it for months."

Spike quirked a smile at that.

"But then it happened, and everything changed. I couldn't even go home anymore. There was no home. I couldn't talk to Mom about it, because there was no cemetery anymore. I think there's something about cemeteries that make people talk to the dead…" She paused. "The six-feet-under type of death, you know."

"'Course."

"Well, I didn't have that anymore. And Will…we hadn't been close since before I died. Before jumping off the tower and everything. You know that more than anyone."

Spike nodded again, his treacherous hands playing wistfully with her hair.

"Xander left. We still talk to him and everything, but I think losing Anya was like the last thing he could tolerate. It didn't hit him until later. Kinda like me. Until we were out of there." Buffy paused again, her eyes blurring with tears. "And I couldn't go to you, because there was no you. There was Dawnie…but I didn't want to…and despite how things have changed, hell would freeze over before I talked to Faith."

"How is Faith?"

"Doing what I'm doing. Training. Helping the new girls, and _lord, _there are a bunch of new girls." She paused thoughtfully. "She came here to help, too. I don't know if she's still here or not."

He nodded. "Still with the principal?"

"They were for a while. She's seeing some congressman now, if you can believe that."

There was an unlikely snort. "Evil an' politics, luv. 'm findin' more an' more that they go hand-in-hand."

A long uncomfortable beat settled between them. Then she was talking again.

"So I think I died a little that day…when you were gone," she whispered, eyes cast downward. "It was real. Didn't hit me until we were halfway across Nevada and stopping, like I said, that I would never see you again. I kinda…I looked around the bus at times, thinking you'd pop up. 'Cause even before, when you left, you were still out there, you know? You left after…things ended between us." He was glad she opted to exclude the manner in which said things had ended. "But you were still out there. Not this time, though. You wouldn't be coming back. And I'd realize it, then my hand would burn and my heart would hurt a little, but I'd ignore it. Move on. I didn't realize that it was me dying."

There was another long pause. Spike was halfway attempted to balk and call her melodramatic, but there was something in her voice that screamed the truth. And it astonished him. Astonished him enough to curl his arm around her waist. To sink a level lower than he wanted to admit himself.

_Just for now. Let me have now._

Her eyes fell shut at the enhanced contact, and that enchanted him. "It wasn't enough, though. It came in small increments. Willow finally approached me after we got to London, and I…I guess I hit a wall. Headfirst, full-speed, the works. But we started talking finally. And I told her. I told her everything I missed. All my regrets. Not just about you, but mostly about you. How much I hated myself for not taking chances when they should've been taken. For treating you the way I did that year. It wasn't fair. I was a monster, and because I'm the chick, everything got pinned on you." She met his gaze, and the emotion storming her front stole his breath from his lips. "I'm so sorry, Spike. For that. Did I ever tell you that I'm sorry? I'd do everything different if I could. Go back and…just realize what you were doing for me. How you were…I mean, you didn't act perfectly, but what you did was a result of what _I _did. And I'll never…"

The sincerity behind her voice astonished him.

"I've never been as sorry for anything in my life as I am for that." She sighed deeply, shifting so that she was lying on her back, her wrist resting against her forehead. "The things I told you, everything…it wasn't true. None of it was true. I had time after time to tell you that last year, and I chickened out. That was my fault." Another grave chuckle rumbled through her lips. "Funny, isn't it? We often pick at the things in others that we're so afraid are coming out in ourselves. I called you a monster because that was what I was. I called you dead inside, because I was dead inside. I wanted to make you the embodiment of everything that was wrong with _me _so I'd have something hurt. And it did hurt. It hurt me, but it hurt you so much worse." She turned to him, grasping his hand intently. "I'm so sorry for that. I never told you how sorry I am."

He watched her for careful seconds, schooling his own innate need to reassure her. To tell her right off that nothing that had occurred that year had been wholly either one of their faults. But words froze in his throat, and he found himself at a standstill. There was a serious part of him that was still licking at scars; his own words so callously spoken earlier attested to that. But he wouldn't allow himself to take them back, because despite how much he loved her, he had meant them.

"It was Willow's idea that I start dating again. I didn't want to, but she thought it'd be good for me." Buffy expelled and shifted slightly. "And despite whatever you might think, I did have serious reservations about The Immortal. It's not like I went searching for a vampire. Hell, after everything I've been through, a vampire was the _last_ thing I wanted. And…I don't know why I agreed. I really don't. He promised me that he wouldn't, you know, be vampiric." She grinned lightly off his look. "Yeah, stupid Buffy. Of course, I know he was now. Not in the usual ways, 'cause that's not his _style, _as we well know. But enough. I guess I just turned a blind eye to it. Makes sense. He's not the type of guy to compromise when he can get away with the full steal. I just didn't see it." A frustrated fist pounded relentlessly against the mattress. "And I don't know why, Spike. That's what bothers me most of all. This is…me, you know? I _don't_ turn blind eyes when people are getting hurt. But I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to make the same mistakes over again. I spent so much time hating you for what you were that I never appreciated everything else. Didn't appreciate you for what you _weren't._" She shook her head and hissed a spiteful breath. "I thought…I guess I thought that I was making it up, somehow. Making up everything that I did to you. But I was wrong. I was so wrong. I smiled and nodded and pretended everything was all right, but there's only one you, and I missed you so much." There was a short pause and she turned away again, wiping irately at her eyes. "I guess it was just like you and Harm, but I was trying to pretend it wasn't."

Spike waited a long minute, studying her with both skepticism and empathy. He wanted to reach out and touch her again, but didn't dare will that much of himself away. With one touch needlessly came the want of others, and he didn't trust himself to deny his body the pleasure of her nearness. Having her this close was torture enough. _Give a mouse a sodding cookie. _And he was effectively torn. He wanted so desperately to believe her. To trust that whatever had concurred between her and The Immortal came out of some innate need to make amends with every wrong that had connected them in the past. But it still hurt. He knew well enough for what he had seen. What he understood about The Immortal. Everything that made him what he was correspondingly made everything else.

He released another deep breath, frowning as his body again called out for water. _Strange._There were several truths to be reckoned with—more so than he had presumed to hope against. "'S nice sentiment an' all," he murmured. "But Buffy, I wasn' born in the bloody barn. The Immortal's been around forever. I know his rep, an' I know you. What good li'l girls like you enjoy when the lights go out."

Her eyes fell shut and she waved him off dismissively. "It so completely was not about that."

"Wasn't it?"

"Really. I didn't even know he had a rep for it until…" She flushed and glanced away, and he felt the familiar strings of angered jealousy tighten across his chest, his hand fisting to keep from pounding into the nearest pillow. "And it kinda surprised me," she said quickly. "I think a part of the reputation is more how many lovers he's had. And yeah, the sex was…_good…_but…it wasn't the _best."_

Spike blinked at her. "I would take a hint an' run with that one, but I don' feature gettin' anywhere."

A smirk flashed across her face. "He talked to me about you, you know. Just a little. Said you, he, and Angel often came at a crossroads. He also told me about snatching Darla and Dru away on selected occasions."

His eyes widened. "There were _selected _occasions?"

"You didn't know?"

He paused for a second, gaze dropping to the mattress. "Knew of one. Others? Well, can't say it surprises."

"He also said they were massively pleased with his performance." A frown furrowed her brow. "He was really into himself, now that I think about it. But anyway, I'm guessing that since that was a hundred plus years ago, you've…ummm…well…" She smiled shyly at his expression. "I dunno. Maybe not. Maybe it's because…it doesn't matter now."

A pang struck deep within his chest for no reason other than the promise of her will. And he knew irreparably that whatever distance he put between them, whether for her or his benefit, was something he could never falter. Sometimes pain was worth it, other times it wasn't.

She had always been worth it. He didn't know when that had changed for him.

If it ever had.

"Buffy…with what I said earlier…"

She held up a hand. "Don't."

"With whatever happens, I don' want you walkin' out of here thinkin' that anythin' has changed." Spike paused considerately, tilting his head. "I don' know when things got so wonky. When others started matterin' to me. I was holdin' your hand an' the next thing I knew, I was in Angel's office standin' in the middle of his sodding desk. An' I did wanna get to you, luv. More than anythin'. Tried leavin' several times, but that li'l medallion that made me a champion kept pullin' me back. Guess I was Wolfram an' Hart collateral. Din't rightly matter. The longer I was there, the more my mind started playin' the guilt game on me. An' once I was back in the flesh, goin' to you seemed like the most unfair thing to do." He sighed, his treacherous hand finding hers. Needing to feel her, despite what his cautious mind forewarned. "It kills me to think of you with anyone else. An' yeh, I'm a hypocrite. 'S what I wanted for you when you ran out of the cave. A chance to live an' all that. I was happy to give it to you…I jus' got the wrong end, 'cause it din't last. As for the other, I knew it was inevitable, but doesn' mean I…" He smiled when she grinned at him shyly. "I guess when I figured out who you had moved on to, somethin' snapped. It hurt…because of everythin'. 'm still angry as hell, but that doesn' mean you deserved some of the things I said. I know you're…you grew up from that, Buffy. I jus'…I figured you'd wanna be with someone who…"

"Wouldn't hurt me?"

He nodded. She smiled.

"Wasn't it you who always said I needed a little monster in my man?"

"What you got with me was more than a li'l monster, luv."

"That wasn't your fault. But god, I don't wanna play the blame game." A long sigh passed through her throat, and she shook her head, leaning back. "You said we were beyond 'sorry's.' I _want _to be beyond them. Very, very beyond them. I don't know what I expected coming here…but yeah, major Buffy presumption in thinking that we could magically work everything out."

"I wish we could."

A watery smile crossed her face. "So do I."

An uncomfortable beat past between them, screaming all the things that remained unsaid. Everything that was yet unaccounted for.

"I meant it, you know."

Spike perked a brow, shifting slightly against the hospital pillow. "Meant it?"

"You didn't believe me…and yeah, that pissed me off, but I understand why you didn't. I just think it's important that you know I meant it." The Cockney froze palpably, mind racing as his eyes went as large as saucers. There was no doubting to what she was referring—no doubting, and yet a part of him needed suddenly to hear the words with more desperation than anything he had ever experienced.

It was unfair, of course. To demand her love after everything that had occurred.

But God, he hadn't changed so radically, had he? This was what he wanted.

"I had a lot of time to make it right," she continued, playing ignorance on part of his reaction. "That's one of my biggest regrets. I could've told you that night in the house. You know?"

A hard swallow. "Yeh." He thought of that night so often. Played out its conclusion a thousand different ways, even if what had transpired between them remained one of the singular most revolutionary events in all his years.

And before he knew what he was doing, his mouth fell open and he bowed again to the turn of a branch that kept on breaking beneath him.

One last time. If only one last time…

"I meant it, too."

She sat up slowly and looked at him.

"What I told you that night. Everythin'. It hasn' changed." He smiled lightly. "Still remains the best bloody night of my life. Don' think anything'll change that."

The air around them grew tight. Constrictive. It was so strange—he remembered the way it felt, falling all those times before. Watching seasons change in her eyes before she even knew to keep up. And there were so many things to say, so many that had remained unsaid. Things she deserved to know. His own imposed distance between them was broken, and on some level, he had known it couldn't last.

A familiar pain was rising in his chest.

He loved her too much to give her up. Despite how she hurt him; and he wasn't thrilled by what that made him, but for the impossible affection of one woman, he would sacrifice anything.

And he hurt her, too. That knowledge killed him. Seemed they couldn't take one step without destroying each other.

Things had changed, though. So much had changed. She wasn't the empty shell of a woman that resolved her issues by making him the issue, and his own hostility aside; she hadn't been for a while. Last year had seen developments that took what they had and placed it above levels of intimacy. Sharing himself with someone he didn't deserve in ways he had never imagined. But that was last year and things were different now.

They had grown apart in alike ways.

And of course, there were some things that were worth it and always would be.

At some point, he had covered the space between them. She was so close; he could hear her heart thudding against him. Pounding. Her eyes were large and the scent of fresh tears encircled her with poignant repose. Buffy looked at him for a long, studious moment, and finally shook her head before emotion could cloud her again. "Is there no way to fix this?"

And that was it. No more pretending. No more guarding himself behind self-imposed shields. He loved her with everything he was, and he wasn't going to deny himself that any longer.

It hurt.

"I meant what I said that night," Spike whispered. "I love you, Buffy. I think I always have…in one way, or another."

The emotion storming her eyes threatened to overflow. "Oh God, I love you, too. And I'm sorry." Her voice cracked and she glanced down; there was nothing that struck him quite as deeply as the sight of her grief. "I'm so sorry for everything. For making you believe that it…your soul meant nothing to me. It meant the world."

He nodded, because he believed her. "I know, luv. I'm sorry for that. Sorry for a lot of things." A long breath hissed through his teeth. "'ve been a git."

"You earned it."

"There's a lot to work through, here."

"I know. Oh God, I know." Her face threatened to crumple again. "But I wanna try. Please, Spike, can we try?"

That was it. The rest of his resistance fell to the wayside, and he pulled her to him, crushing her against his chest and burying his nose in her hair. "Yes. God, yes. I never wanted anythin' else." He pulled back just a bit, smiling through his own tears, and kissed her softly with reassurance. "I was…earlier—"

"He…I needed to prove to myself that I had changed."

"You have." Spike smiled delicately and cupped her face, pressing his lips to her forehead. "We both have." A sigh tumbled through his lips. "I've crossed the world for you more times than I can count, sweetheart," he murmured. "I was a wanker to think I'd ever do anythin' but."

Buffy pulled back only slightly, resting her brow against his as she nodded. "We'll work this out?"

A grin tickled his lips. "We're both as hardheaded as they come."

"I'm not too late?"

"I'm surprised I even managed to let you think that." Spike kissed her cheek reverently. "There's never too late with us. I thought there was once, but you turned my world upside down on it. You've forgiven me for so much. More than I reckon I deserve."

"You, too." Buffy attempted a smile but couldn't quite make it. "I just want the hurt to be in the past. There's been so much hurt…I just…"

"'m not goin' anywhere."

"Promise?"

There was a significant pause at that; he released a quaking breath and met her eyes again for the satisfaction of his word. There would be no leaving again. No bursting into flames, no more sucker-punches and name-calling. No more of anything that stopped them before. Whatever happened in the future would be new. There would undoubtedly be tears and anger and arguments and things said that they wished they could take back. But there would be no more running. Not from this. Not from either one of them.

To turn away now would cost him every sense of self. He was a fool, even for a second, to think it otherwise.

"Promise."

And there it was. A smile he had conquered worlds for in a time that didn't seem so long ago. The same that haunted his dreams and greeted him upon every awakening. The same he had sacrificed himself for time and time again, because once was never enough. A million times later could never be enough.

Something arose within him. There were _still_ worlds out there to conquer.

And he would find them. Every last one.

If it meant he could keep her.

**To be concluded in Part Five: _Glowing Ember…_**


	5. Glowing Ember

**A/N: **Last chappie. I didn't think it was possible, but I've wrapped a story in five parts. My sincere thanks to everyone who read and reviewed, and a special thanks to Kimmie and Megan for their wonderful job in both editing and reassuring me that all's well that end's well. You guys rock.

L'Amour is officially off hiatus. I'll hopefully have an update before the end of the week.

* * *

**Glowing Ember**

It didn't take long to smooth through the process of checkout. Spike had all but healed, save his side, and the last thing he wanted to do was linger around a hospital longer than needed. While his experience in such buildings remained on the side of little, he was starting to develop the nauseated cabin fever that so many had complained about.

Giles and Willow were waiting in the lobby, and while they spoke in turn, the air around them was constrained and awkward. Buffy had appeared at his side the next minute, and he had wrapped an arm around her out of something that he reckoned would definitely become habit.

The Watcher and the redhead relaxed at that, and Spike couldn't help but grin. They had been dancing around the issue of his relationship with the Slayer since he emerged from line. And evidently, the display of affection—minor as it was—was all that they needed to breech the subject conscience-free. "So…you two have everything worked out?" Willow asked softly. "I mean…you were in there for a long time and…"

Buffy glanced down and Spike offered a reassuring smile. "Not everythin', Red," he retorted. "Bollocks, 'f we could've solved everythin' in jus' a few hours, we'd have to publicize ourselves as the world's healthiest couple, an' no one knows how much rot that is better than the two of you."

Giles nodded grimly. "I would say such is the understatement of the year, but the year's not quite over, is it?"

"We'll take numbers an' tally up the scores at the end."

The Watcher paused at that, tilting his head curiously. "How are you feeling otherwise? Angel suggested that there might be…some change."

Spike frowned. "Change?"

"He's wanted water," Buffy offered with a shrug. "Lots and lots of water. And he's been breathing more than usual."

He turned to her. "I have?"

"Yeah." She glanced down almost shyly. "While you were sleeping. You…you breathed more in your sleep than you have in the past."

"Well…that's a li'l strange." He shrugged. "The water bit…I dunno."

Giles and Willow exchanged a conspicuous glance.

"What?"

"Nothing," the Witch said, smiling lightly. "Sure it's nothing. But to be on the safe side…don't smoke anything until you're positive that everything's normal, okay?"

Spike's brows perked. "Don' smoke? You have any idea how long 's been since I've had a ciggie? Peaches's been cuttin' me off li'l by li'l ever since I got mojo'ed back."

Buffy laughed lightly. "And you listened to him?"

There was a gruff pause. "Not at firs', of course. But, as I've said, li'l by li'l. We were even gettin' along there in the end."

"Really?"

"Involuntary."

"Figured."

Willow offered a grin and nodded. "Understandable. Where are you guys headed from here?"

Another still beat passed between them. Spike met Buffy's eyes and shrugged when she shrugged. There was still so much to work out, and they had only started. All he knew for certain now was that he didn't want to let her out of his sight. Not now, perhaps not ever. He was too afraid that everything since awaking had been a dream. A dream as only his life would tell: one with tears and revelations, the confession of requited love and a promise to start anew, no matter how long it took to get where they needed to be. Nothing like this had ever happened to him.

Being loved in return was the most elated feeling in all his existence.

"We dunno," the Slayer replied. "Guess to a hotel."

Spike shook his head. "We can go to my flat. 'm guessin' it survived the worst of the damage." He considered that briefly, then frowned and turned to Giles. "We _are _in LA still, right?"

"Near enough."

He nodded. "An' does anyone 'round here have a watch? For some reason, I 'aven't the faintest clue what time it is. An' seein' as my girl saved me from a fate worse than death, it seems hardly fair to repay her by explodin' the minute I step outside."

Giles and Willow exchanged another glance. Spike sighed his exasperation.

_"What?"_

"Nothing," they replied together.

The Cockney squinted at them suspiciously but let the matter drop. If there was anything he knew about the Scoobies, it was their vastly annoying habit to wait until the very last possible minute to reveal vital information—especially if they were as uncertain as the two before him looked now. There was no choice but to wait it out.

"It's just past sunset," the Watcher explained. "Does your flat have a telephone?"

"'m not from the sodding stone age, mate." Spike reached inside the lapels of his duster and whipped out a small cell, smiling unpleasantly at the other man's astonishment. Then, with another sigh and a roll of his shoulders, he slumped once more and conceded, "Peaches made me. Said that it was bloody imperative that he know where everyone was."

Buffy's eyes widened with playfulness that made his heart warm. It looked good on her, especially considering the emotional roller coaster that still had both their legs wobbly. "Wow. Giles, are you _sure_ the world didn't end?"

He smirked and pocketed the phone on the same beat. "Very funny, pet."

"Ooh!" Willow's eyes alighted eagerly. "Does it have a funny ring? 'Cause you know…some cell phones do that. Really, most of them do nowadays. And…it would be…well…funny."

"Hence the funny ring."

The Witch nodded.

Spike rolled his eyes. "Lorne got hold of it at some point. Can't get it to play anythin' but the sodding Imperial March."

Giles grinned thinly. "How very fitting."

"Yeh…well…" He glanced down, shifting uncomfortably. "Guess I owe you an' yours some thanks an' what all. We likely wouldn't've made it without you." The look on the faces around him suggested they thought it more probable if he took out the _likely _and simply admitted that they had saved his life. "So…uhhh…thanks. For comin'."

The redhead beamed a warm smile. "We had to," she replied. "You know how we love a good apocalypse."

"Yeh. Gotta tell you, though: hobby. Look into it."

She smirked.

Spike smiled in turn and pivoted to Buffy. "We have wheels?"

"One of Angel's cars."

"One of Angel's cars got saved?"

She shrugged. "It was the one at the Hyperion. Your getaway car, I'm guessing. He told us we could have it."

He blinked incredulously. "Peaches _gave _you one of his precious cars? His _last _precious car? After all the bloody grief he gave me? Sod it all."

"He still had one," Willow obligatorily pointed out.

"Oh." Spike pouted a minute. The prospect of making way with the last of his grandsire's prized collection had been fleetingly exciting. "Well, still. 'S the thought that counts, right?" He turned to Buffy again and held out a hand. "Keys?"

There was a beat of hesitation, but she handed them over all the same. He read her uncertainty for what it was worth, and smiled kindly the next minute.

"I'll be 'round to pick you up," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Promise?"

"Promise. An' I keep my promises, luv."

She grinned at that and nodded. "I know."

They paused a minute before parting, eyes meeting in a way that wordlessly promised so much more ahead. It was strange—this forced non-distance. They would take the necessary steps hand-in-hand. They would tackle all obstacles together. They would have what they had wanted for so long, and they would have it together.

The prospect of being one half of a whole was something that Spike reckoned it would take lifetimes to adjust to. He had never been granted as much. It was more than he had ever thought to ask for.

One step at a time. That was what they were made for.

And for once, they had all the time in the world.

* * *

Buffy was nervous as the car came to a halt, and she hadn't the faintest idea why. In retrospect, she was as happy as she had ever been. There was nothing else in the world that she could have asked for; the idea, however, of stepping into the outside reality with something that her heart had pined for with relentless seeming perpetuity made her start with the realization of how authentic everything was.

Just a little over three days ago, she had been in Rome. And Spike had been dead.

Now Spike was sitting beside her. He was smiling at her with warmth that she didn't know could exist in a world so cold. And while she would never allow herself to forget the stab of pain that every one of his callous words had purchased, she similarly wouldn't dismiss what had gotten her here.

She and Spike had been honest with each other. Today. A year ago. Honesty. What she craved. And even while it stung with more ferocity than she thought she could tolerate, it was better than the image of happiness. They weren't okay; they had things to work out. But of all her relationships, this one had the most promise. The most anything.

Spike loved her. She had known that, of course, but it didn't stop her heart from melting every time she considered the revelation behind his confession. A year could change a person. She knew that better than anyone, save the man at her side. It had changed her. She had become someone worthy of his love, and he had become someone that understood the world for its acceptance in a whole new light. Somewhere in the middle, they had met, linked, and were steadily walking forward.

There was still one thing, though. One more trench to cross. And everyone knew it was happening except for him.

Little by little, Spike was becoming human. More than his soul, his ethics, his love…his body was finally following suit. Angel had told them that it would happen; he was, after all, a vampire that had genuinely given himself up in the heartland of saving the world. He would have twice if need be. And now that the only other vampire in the running for the Shanshu prophecy had been disqualified, the Powers had their champion and were finally issuing the reward.

Everyone knew it. From the water to the breathing, the loss of his vampiric clock and the lack of blood from his diet. He hadn't even noticed that one—hadn't noticed how he hadn't craved something warm and red upon awakening.

Of course, there had been an immediate distraction.

The reflection would be next. That was her guess.

Buffy sighed and tossed him a quick, nervous glance. Broaching the subject seemed too tender. She was doing somersaults of nervous ecstasy at the thought. It was what she had always wanted. To be with someone she loved—really loved—and have him in all the ways a normal girl was supposed to have her man. There were no lies. No pretenses. He would not be a vampire, and she was no longer the Slayer. Not really. She was free.

And soon, he would be, as well. And they could grow old together. They could be one of those adorable old couples that end up dressing alike and rely on Country Kitchen as though time knew no end.

A possibility both were very familiar with.

She tried to imagine what Spike would look like as an old man. He would probably have to go by William by the time his age started showing. As a child, it would be wigsome to live next to a crazy British man who shared a name with the dog off _Rugrats_. Not that Buffy was any better. She would have to revert, as well.

The blonde lent herself pause at that, then mentally shook her head. No matter their age, she suspected she and Spike would be as boisterous and outside the boundary of normality as possible. Hell, they would likely still be saving the world.

Good thing, too. The world found them invaluable.

"I warn you," the man at her side murmured, jarring her out of her thoughts. "'S not very posh. Haven't rightly had enough time to decorate. There's a telly an' a fridge. Sofa in the living room an' a bed in the back. Comfy, but 'f you're expecting some hot digs, I—"

Buffy smiled timidly and placed a hand over his. "It'll be fine."

"You've been livin' the high life in Rome, Slayer. This'll be a rude awakenin'."

"You're here. I'm here. Color me happy."

He paused at that to warm her with his affection. "This feels surreal," he observed, leaning in to brush a kiss over her forehead. "I never thought I'd get here. Never thought you'd…"

"I know. Me, either." She quickly covered his mouth when he started to speak again, her eyes wide and imploring. "Can we not talk about the serious stuff tonight? I know we have a lot to go through. We have an entire beginning to make. I just…I've had a long day."

There was a beat of silence and his smile grew solemn, but he nodded his agreement all the same. "I know," he replied. "Right. Come on, sweetheart. I'll give you the not-so-grand tour."

Spike's place was in shambles, but she had been expecting that. It had all the signs of recent dispute; broken furniture, splatters of blood on the ground, a sizable dent in the far wall. Buffy bit her lip, hardly paying attention as he took her handbag and placed it at the nearby counter. Though true to his word—the apartment wasn't much—it was oddly homey. He had nested here, and nested well. The telly was Spike. The Playstation was Spike. She could picture walls filled with obscure art and posters advocating punk bands in the near future.

It didn't end there. She found everything on his makeshift tour to be very much him.

"Had to upgrade the bed, 'course," he explained as they briefly peeked in to the bedchamber. "You know how much I love room for…" Words caught in his throat and he coughed, glancing down. Though they hadn't said anything, it was tacitly understood that progression to a physical relationship was something they would have to wait on. With as well as they knew each other, it was similarly understood that there was too much healing to do before they made the leap into the sack.

That was, after all, what had gotten them in trouble in the first place. And they weren't about to make the same mistake twice.

No matter how much love was present now.

Thus Buffy offered a self-conscious titter and nodded. "You're a bed hog."

He scoffed. "Am not."

"Well, you do like 'em sizey. In fact, you like _everything _sizey." She frowned and gave the place another once-over. "Not that that's bad, 'cause it's not. It's really…nice, actually. But it seems too small for you."

Spike shrugged, brushing past her and heading for the fridge. "Mighta been a li'l cramped at firs', but in the end, it was jus' fine for jus' me, sweets," he replied. "Don' expect to get too comfy, though. I don' intend to stay in Los Angeles. Don' think you wanna, either."

"That'd be a no."

He smiled thinly and nodded, popping a beer open. "'Nother thing to discuss come tomorrow, right?"

"I think there will ultimately be a series of conversations that span the rest of our lives, Spike." Buffy crossed her arms and stepped forward, eyes glowing with poignancy and need of reassurance. He was right; it was surreal. Standing in the place where Spike had lived. For months. Without her. These walls knew him better than she did right now. These walls knew everything that had happened while he had been living without her.

When she came to herself again, she found Spike directly in front of her, smiling his kindness and tilting her chin up so that her eyes would meet his. The gentility on his face was reassuring, but she was still on eggshells. For everything that had occurred only a few hours earlier—the words he had spoken, and the conviction she knew he had felt, it seemed entirely possible for her dream to collapse and everything to be as it was before. Before she knew that he was alive. Before she came to be here, in this place that knew him better than she did, with the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. The man she lost years with because of her own foolishness.

"I hope so, Buffy," he told her earnestly. "We have a long way to go. But I love you. An' I'll be here. I'll be wherever you are."

"It just seems so…"

"I know. What a day, huh?"

An ironic chuckle rumbled through her lips. "'What a day' doesn't even begin to cut it," she retorted. "I don't know what I expected with you. I was terrified that we wouldn't get here in time, and you would die…again…without knowing I…" She reached up to cup his cheek, shivering a bit in content as he leaned into her. "And then…not knowing if you'd wake up…"

"Vampire, luv," he reminded her lowly. "They din't set me on fire, an' my heart…" He took her hand and placed it above his chest, and she held her breath for a minute, fleetingly expecting a beat to resound beneath her fingers. It didn't, of course. That was the final step. "'S intact."

Buffy swallowed hard, gently caressing him through his shirt. "If I promise that it'll never break again, would you believe me?"

He smiled but shook his head. "Not in a thousand years, luv."

She frowned.

"You can break my heart a million different ways. Doesn' matter what you promise me. We're workin' us out, but that doesn' mean we automatically get our happy endin'." Spike drew in a breath and pressed his lips to her forehead reverently. "Still don' know 'f I believe in those."

She pursed her lips, eyes fogging as she forced herself to nod in acquiescence. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Spike's eyes fell to her mouth, and he drew her into a loving kiss. "Don'…"

The word barely had time to escape his lips before she pulled him back down, tasting the full of him with wanton reassurance of his being. The skin beneath her fingertips felt real. The cloth of his shirt, the lingering scent of leather alongside the cigarettes he had allegedly given up. The barest hint of alcohol from god-knows-when. She was willing to bet he would always be like this; even if he gave up all the bad habits that she was determined to permanently eradicate from his system. The needless desperation that poured from a union they had too long taken for granted. And then it was just them. The silky feel of his tongue caressing hers. The exploration of a mouth she knew so well. Everything into one delicious package.

Having love back up what she wanted was the must fulfilling thought she had ever stumbled across, and she knew then that giving this up would solidify her final means to an end.

It couldn't happen. Not when she finally had him.

She feared him long dead, but he was here. Loving her as wholly as she remembered. Fiercely so, because he knew finally that she loved him as well.

"I'm sorry," she sputtered between kisses. "I'm so sorry. I'm—"

"Don't, sweetheart."

"I—"

He pulled back finally, smiling a little when she whimpered at the loss of contact. It was for the best, though. They couldn't afford to get swept in the moment. They couldn't cover problems with sex and hope that everything worked out for the best. It was time to be honest with each other—brutally honest. Honest, forgiving…the start she had always denied them. A relationship founded on principles and understanding, united with love rather than cleansing one another from their systems over and over again.

She couldn't build a lifetime on that alone. She knew that from experience—the same that pierced her heart every time its memory wafted into retrospection.

"I'm so bloody sick of bein' sorry, Buffy" Spike told her. "Spent the better of my time with you worryin' about what I shoulda said or done. Or worse, what I _did _say or do."

"Spike—"

"We can both be sorry until the end of the sodding world. Doesn' change anythin'. Doesn' mean we get to go back an' make it right." He pressed his brow to hers, purring slightly in contentment. "You an' I aren't made for goin' back, though. Not with what we have before us. I don' wanna be sorry anymore."

Buffy swallowed hard. "Neither do I."

"Then don'. Jus' forgive me."

There was a sniffle. "What for?"

"For anythin'. Anythin' you feel you can forgive me for that you haven't already." Spike let out a deep breath, searching her eyes. "I've done the same. It might smart every now an' then, but what's done 's done." He smiled. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

He warmed her with one of the looks she had come to cherish. The same he favored her with only on occasion marking a change in their relationship. It made her insides melt all within one beat. The endless winnings of a prize she had never thought to meet. "Then we won' prattle along in the past."

She smiled gently, her eyes fluttering closed as he pressed another kiss to her lips, then against her cheek and finally her forehead.

"They say that love isn't who you can see yourself with," he told her a minute later, "but who you can't see yourself without." He willed a sigh against her, resting his cheek against a crown of golden hair. "You're the hardest woman in the world to get over, Buffy. Don' know who I was tryin' to fool in pretendin' anythin' else. All you had to do was walk into a room an' my life changed all over again. I don' wanna see myself without you anymore. The last time nearly killed me."

She shook her head. "You won't."

"I'm puttin' a lot on the line here…"

"So am I."

Spike smiled and met her eyes. "I know." The air grew heavy for a few seconds; he finally willed himself around, shaking his head. "I know I've been lyin' in bed for a couple days, but—"

"Emotionally exhausted?"

A thin grin spread across his lips. "Somethin' like that."

"Me, too." Buffy tossed a sideways glance to the sofa. "So…ummm…you just got out of the hospital, so you should take the bed. Don't suppose you have any extra—"

Spike held up a hand and shook his head with a rumble of amusement. "Don' reckon you thought I'd let you get away with that," he jested, tilting his head considerately. "Told you—the bed's big enough. We can avoid temptation."

She arched a brow. It felt good bantering with each other. Good and strange. Like fitting a puzzle piece into the whole that had been missing for far too long. Something she knew as well as she knew anything else, but would have to get used to again just the same.

A smirk spread across his lips. _Oh yes._

"I _do _know my limitations, sweetheart," he retorted, glancing down shyly in a manner that both charmed her and melted her heart in the same swoop. "I jus'…like before. When we just…when I jus' held you."

That was it. The teasing front slipped away, and she could do nothing but offer a watery, heartfelt smile.

A trembling breath escaped her lips. "I'd like that."

Understatement. There had been nights following his death when she laid awake, waiting for sleep, attempting to imagine herself curled in the safety of his embrace. How he had held her as though he could find nothing else of higher value. As though all the pain that had crossed between them could meld into something created in beauty. Something that transcended any sort of feeling she had ever experienced before.

It had never been like that. Not with anyone. She had never felt as safe in anyone's arms as she did in Spike's. And she had told him—for the strength he gave her that night and the two nights following, she had won the last big battle. Her final hurrah.

Only that wasn't fair. She had been there, but she hadn't won it.

He had.

"Right," Spike murmured, nearing to caress her lips again with his. "'ll go make sure everything's otherwise presentable."

Buffy arched a cool brow. "Presentable?"

He grinned. "We're startin' off right, right?"

She nodded.

"Well, I might be a bloody slob, but I don' particularly fancy you sleepin' in a pit of filth. You deserve more than a bloody hole in the ground—'specially one with bloodstains an' grime as the décor. This place has taken a severe beatin'." His eyes traveled to the worn walls with a poignant sigh. "Don' know how much damage has been done in there. Hold up, luv. I'll be right back."

A small, happy sigh jittered through her, even if she was immediately bereft at the feel of his absence. Buffy pursed her lips and wiped her hands subconsciously against her jeans, turning to examine the living room once more for herself. The place that Spike had called home for months. For months when he was elsewhere. When he was fighting the good fight with Angel.

When he was living without her.

She shook her head at that. No sense thinking thoughts that only succeeded in bringing her down. They were here now. Together. And nothing would drive her away.

Buffy expelled another sigh, turning to the counter where she had abandoned her purse. She suspected her makeup was ruined, though she knew how much Spike preferred her au naturale. Still, she wasn't in the mood to pull a Tammy Faye. It would be better to wash everything off altogether.

But as she brought her compact to eye-level, something odd caught her gaze. Something that hadn't been seen in over a century.

Spike was approaching. And she knew because he was reflecting.

A sense of overwhelming giddiness snatched her insides.

"Sorry 'bout that," he said, gesturing broadly. "Never saw a need for a mirror in here. Guess we'll hafta invest in one, wherever we land."

An ironic smile crossed her face. "Guess so."

That wasn't enough. Spike's eyes narrowed in suspicion. He had a knack for reading her like an open book—something she had always admired while resenting. No one else held such insight. Not where she was concerned. "What is it?"

Buffy placed her belongings aside and neared, feathering a kiss across his lips.

"I'll tell you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" His eyes narrowed even further. "You're not welshin' me, are you?"

"Absolutely not," she assured him. "I just want tonight." When his expression failed to lighten, she ran her hand down the length of his arm until their fingers entwined, their palms pressed together in a matter of such unity it sent ripples of awareness down her spine. "I love you, Spike."

He softened at that. "I love you."

"Then let's save everything for tomorrow. I want tonight just with you…nothing else. We have tomorrow for everything else." Buffy smiled softly. "Tomorrow and every day thereafter."

Spike drew still, searching her eyes for something she could not identify. She did not blame him, though. With everything there was, immeasurably the wondrous start of something unexplored had to be tread with caution.

They would stand next to each other; be there to support when the bridge became rickety. When the waters stirred trouble and the earth threatened to fall. She knew it.

And he saw.

"All right."

His hand squeezed hers tenderly, and he turned to lead her to rest. There, they would pick up where they had left themselves and start anew. Start something that would map the roadway for a lifetime.

But that was for tomorrow. Tonight was all for them with nothing in between.

And in that, for the first time in a long time, they found solace.

**FIN**


End file.
